In the latter days of William Penn,the sun and the light were darkened—the clouds returned after the rain—the grasshopper became a burden—and the years had drawn nigh, when he could truly say he hadno pleasure in them. No mortal, probably, ever enjoyed a more continual feast from the consciousness of a life, devoted to the glory of God, and the welfare of man; but many of his temporal reliances had crumbled under him; and trouble had gathered about his path, and about his bed.
He had not much more comfort in his government, I fear, than Sancho Panza enjoyed, in that of Barataria. Its commencement was marked, by a vexatious dispute with Lord Baltimore; and the Governor’s absence was ever the signal for altercation, between different cliques and parties, and vexatious neglect, on the part of his tenants and agents. In his letters to Thomas Lloyd, the President of his Council, he complains of some in the government, for drinking, carousing, and official extortion.
In his letters to Lloyd and Harrison in 1686, he complains of the Council, for neglecting and slighting his letters; that he cannot get “a penny” of his quit-rents; and adds—“God is my witness, I lie not. I am now above six thousand pounds out of pocket, more than ever I saw by the province; and you may throw in my pains, cares, and hazard of life, and leaving of my family and friends to serve them.”
It is even stated by Clarkson, vol. i. ch. 22, that want of funds from the Province prevented his returning to America, in 1686. In the following year, he renews these complaints.
In 1688, and after the revolution, he was examined, before the Lords of Council, on the charge of being a Papist and a Jesuit; gave bonds for his attendance, on the first day of the next term; and, no witness then appearing against him, he was discharged.
In 1690, he was again arrested, and bound over as before, and, no witness appearing, was again discharged. In the same year, he was once more arrested, and committed to prison. On the day of trial, no witness appeared, and he was again discharged. He resolved to fly from such continual persecution, to America, and, while making his preparation, he was again arrested, upon the information of one Fuller, who was afterward set in the pillory, for his crime.
Penn sought safety, in privacy and retirement from the world. In 1691, a new proclamation was issued for his arrest; and his American affairs wore a gloomy aspect. In 1693, he was deprived of his government, by King William; and pursued with unrelenting rage, by his enemies. In the words of Clarkson, he was “a poor, persecuted exile.”
“Canonized to-day and cursed to-morrow”—such seems to have been the fortune of William Penn. His only prudent course seemed to be to bow down, before the wrath of that popular hurricane, which swept furiously over him, and went upon its way. This good and great man was not wholly forgotten. He had never forfeited the affectionate respect of some persons, who have left bright names, for the admiration of future ages. Such were Locke and Tillotson. They marked their time, and moved in behalf of the oppressed. Lords Ranelagh, Rochester, and Sidney went to King William—they “considered it a dishonor to the Government, that a man, who had lived such an exemplary life, and who had been so distinguished for his talents, disinterestedness, generosity, and public spirit, should be buried in an ignoble obscurity, and prevented from rising to future eminence and usefulness, in consequence of the charge of an unprincipled wretch, whom Parliament had publicly stigmatized, as a cheat and an impostor.”
King William replied to these truly noble lords, “that William Penn wasan old friend of his, as well as theirs, and that he might follow his business, as freely as ever, for he had nothing to say against him.” The principal Secretary of State, Sir John Trenchard, and the Marquis of Winchester bore these joyful tidings to William Penn. And how did he receive them? He went instantly, of course, to tender the homage of his humble acknowledgments to King William—not so. He was then greatly embarrassed in his pecuniary affairs. Foes were on every side. The wife whom, in his parting letter, he bade remember, that she wasthe love of his youth and the joy of his life, was on her death-bed, prostrated there, according to Clarkson, in no small degree, by her too keen sympathy for her long suffering husband. Hisheartwas broken—hisspiritwas not. He preferred rights before favors, and desired permission publicly to defend himself, before the King in council. This was granted, and he was abundantly acquitted, after a deliberate hearing.
The last hours of his wife, Gulielma Maria, were cheered bythis intelligence. In about a month after this event, she died. “She was an excelling person,” said he, “as wife, child, mother, mistress, friend, and neighbor.”
In 1694, a complete reconciliation took place between Penn and the society of Friends; and, in the same year, he was restored to the Government of Pennsylvania. In 1696, he married Hannah Callowhill, of Bristol. These gleams of returning happiness were soon obscured. A few weeks after this marriage, he lost his eldest son. This young man was upon the eve of twenty-one. His father’s simple narrative of the dying hour is truly affecting. “His time drawing on apace, he said to me—‘My dear father, kiss me. Thou art a dear father. How can I make thee amends?’ He also called his sister, and said to her, ‘poor child, come and kiss me,’ between whom seemed a tender and long parting. I sent for his brother, that he might kiss him too, which he did. All were in tears about him. Turning his head to me, he said softly, ‘Dear father, hast thou no hope for me?’ I answered, ‘My dear child, I am afraid to hope, and I dare not despair, but am and have been resigned, though one of the hardest lessons I ever learned.’” When the doctor came, he was very weak, and the narrative continues thus. “He said—‘Let my father speak to the doctor, and I’ll go to sleep,’ which he did and waked no more; breathing his last upon my breast, the tenth day of the second month, between nine and ten in the morning, 1696. So ended the life of my dear child and eldest son, much of my comfort and hope, and one of the most tender and dutiful, as well as ingenuous and virtuous youths I knew, if I may say so of my own dear son, in whom I lost all that any father can lose in a child; since he was capable of anything, that became a sober young man, my friend and companion, as well as most affectionate and dutiful child.”
About this time Penn was sorely grieved, by the conduct of George Keith, the apostate Quaker, who had been excommunicated, and now spent his time, in abusing the society.
Penn had become well convinced of many solemn truths, presented in the last chapter of Ecclesiastes, and of none more fully, than that there is no end of making books. He continued to pour forth pamphlets, on various subjects. In this year, 1696, he became acquainted, and had several interviews, with Peter the Great, who was then working, as a common shipwright, in the dock yards at Deptford. In 1699 he once more visitedPennsylvania. In 1701 he returned to England. In 1702 and 1703 he continued to preach and publish, as vigorously as ever.
In 1707 he became involved in a lawsuit, with the executors of one Ford, his former steward, or agent. Ford was undoubtedly a knave. Penn suffered severely from this cause. The decision was against him; and, though Chancery could not relieve, many thought him greatly wronged. He was compelled, in 1708, to live within the rules of the Fleet. This, doubtless, was the occasion of Mr. Burke’s erroneous statement, many years after, that Penn died in the Fleet Prison. An amusing anecdote may be referred to this period, which, though not mentioned by Clarkson, nor in the life by Chalmers, may be found in the Encyclopædia Britannica, of 1798, and is repeated, in Napier’s edition of 1842. Penn is said to have had a peep-hole, through which, unseen, he could see every visitor. A creditor, having often knocked, and becoming impatient, knocked more violently; “will not your master see me?” said he, when the door was opened—“He hathseenthee, friend,” the servant replied, “but he doth not like thee.”
In 1709, his necessities were such, that he mortgaged his whole Province of Pennsylvania, for £6600. This necessity, as Oldmixon says, in his “Account of the British Empire in America,” arose from “his bounty to the Indians, his generosity in minding the public affairs of the Colony more than his own private ones, his humanity to those, who have not made suitable returns, his confidence in those, who have betrayed him.”
In 1712, he had three apoplectic fits, followed by those painful effects, which are usual in such cases. His friend, Thomas Story, the first recorder of Philadelphia, made him yearly visits, after this period, till his death, which took place July 30, 1718. It is impossible to read the account of these visits, as given by Thomas Story himself, and presented by Clarkson, vol. ii. chap. 18, without emotion.
It has too often befallen those, whose lives have been devoted to the benefit of mankind, to be outraged, after they were dead and buried. Malice delights to meddle with their ashes. Political prejudice and priestly bigotry seek, in graves, undisturbed by ages, for something to gratify their unnatural appetites, and satisfy the gnawings of a mean, vindictive spirit.
Penn had not long been committed to the tomb, when a wretch, Henry Pickworth, an excommunicated renegade, spreadabroad, with all the industry and energy of a malicious spirit, the report that Penn had died a raving maniac, at Bath. This rumor became so general, that it was thought necessary to destroy it, by the publication of certificates from those, who had ministered about his dying bed.
For one hundred and thirty years, William Penn has slumbered in the grave. Thathutesium et clamor, that spirit of persecution, by which this excellent man was pursued, vilified, impoverished, and exiled, has long been hushed. The high churchman, the bigot, the Quaker renegade, the false accuser, have worn out their viperous teeth upon the file. All, that bore the primeval impress of human weakness, in William Penn, had well nigh perished, and departed from the minds of men. All, that was excellent, and lovely, and of good report, had become case hardened, as it were, into a sort of precious immortality. That his spirit had found a celestial niche, among the just made perfect, was the firm faith of all, who believe, that their Father in Heaven is a God of toleration and of mercy. I have paid my imperfect tribute of affectionate respect to the memory of William Penn.
Notwithstanding Mr. Macaulay’s efforts to disturb the popular opinion, in regard to William Penn, his History of England is one of the most amusing books, in the English language. Relationship is worth something, even in a library; I have placed the two volumes, already published, between the works of Sir Walter Scott, and a highly prized edition of the Arabian Nights.
Death has taken away, within a brief space, several of our estimable citizens—Mr. Joseph Balch, an excellent and amiable man, who filled an official station, honorably for himself, and profitably for others—Mr. Samuel C. Gray, a gentleman of taste and refinement, who graduated at Harvard College, in 1811, and, at the time of his death, was President of the Atlas Bank—Mr. John Bromfield, a man of a sound head, and a kind heart. Having bestowed five and twenty thousand dollars, in his life-time, upon the Boston Athenæum, he modestly left the moreextended purposes of his benevolent heart, to be proclaimed, after his decease; and, by his will, distributed, among eight charitable institutions, and his native town, the sum of one hundred and ten thousand dollars.
The features of these good men are still upon the retina of our memories; the tones of their voices yet ring in our ears; we almost expect their wonted salutation, upon the public walk. But there is no mockery here—they are gone—the places, that knew them, shall know them no more!
Death has laid his icy hand upon these men, as he has ever laid the same cold palm upon their fathers, since time began. Such exits are common. Disease triumphed over the flesh, and they ceased to be.
But Death has done his dismal work, of late, in our very midst, by the hand of cruel violence—not sitting like the King of Terrors, in quiet dignity, upon his throne, and casting his unerring shafts abroad; but darting down upon his unsuspecting victim, and, with a murderous grasp, crushing him at once. I allude, as every reader well knows, to the fate of the late Dr. George Parkman.
As the Coroner’s Inquest, after long and laborious investigation, has declared, that he was “killed,” we must assume it to be so. I have known this gentleman, for more than forty years; and have had occasion to observe some of the peculiarities of his character, in the relations of business, as well as in those of ordinary intercourse—I say thepeculiaritiesof his character, for he certainly must be classed in the category ofeccentricmen. Having heard much of this ill-fated gentleman, for many years, before the late awful occurrence, and still more since the event—for he was extensively known, and all, who knew him, have something to relate—I am satisfied, that those very traits of eccentricity, to which I refer, have led the larger part of mankind, to form erroneous impressions of his character.
Dr. George Parkman was the son of Samuel Parkman, an enterprising, and successful merchant, of Boston, who was a descendant of Ebenezer Parkman, who graduated at Harvard College, in 1721, and was ordained Oct. 28, 1724, the first minister of Westborough; and who, after a ministry of sixty years, died, Dec. 9, 1782, at the age of 79, and whose wife was the daughter of Robert Breck, minister of Marlborough, whowas the grandson of Edward Breck, one of the early settlers of Dorchester, in 1636.
Dr. George Parkman graduated, at Harvard College, in 1809. When he commenced his junior year, John White Webster, now Erving Professor of Chemistry and Mineralogy, entered the University, as freshman. Dr. Webster, who is now in prison, charged with the “killing” of Dr. Parkman, will, in due time, be tried, by a jury of his countrymen. Will it not be decorous, and humane, and in accordance with the golden rule, for the men, women, and children of Massachusetts, to permit the accused to have an impartial trial? Can this be possible, if, upon theon ditsof the day, of whose value every man of any experience can judge, this individual, whose past career seems not to have been particularly bloodthirsty, is to be morally condemned, without a hearing?
Hundreds, whose elastic intellects have been accustomed to jump in judgment, are already assured, that we believe Dr. Webster innocent. Now webelieveno such thing—nor do webelievehe is guilty. His reputation and his life are of some little importance to himself, and to his family; and we should be heartily ashamed, to carry a head upon our shoulders, which would not enable us to suspend our judgment, until all thetrue factsare in, and all thefalse factsare out.
How much beautiful reasoning has been utterly and gratuitously wasted, upon premises, which have turned out to be not a whit better, than stubble and rottenness! The very readiness, with which everybody believes all manner of evil, of everybody, furnishes evidence enough, that the devil is in everybody; and goes not a little way, in support of the doctrine of original sin.
Let us, by all means, and especially, by an avoidance of the topic, give assurance to the accused of a fair and impartial trial. If he shall be proved to be innocent, who will not blush, that has contributed to fill the atmosphere, with a presentiment of this poor man’s guilt? If, on the other hand, he shall be proved to be guilty of an incomparably foul and fiendish murder—let him be hanged by the neck till he is dead, for God’s sake—aye, forGod’s sake—for God hath said—WHOSO SHEDDETH MAN’S BLOOD, BY MAN SHALL HIS BLOOD BE SHED.
The personal appearance of Dr. Parkman was remarkable—so much so, that his identity could not well be mistaken, byany one, who had carefully observed his person. His body was unusually attenuated, and I have often, while looking at his profile, perceived a resemblance to Hogarth’s sketch of his friend Fielding, taken from memory, after death.
The talents of Dr. George Parkman were highly respectable. His mind was of that order, which took little rest—its movements, like those of his body, were always quick; more so, perhaps, upon some occasions, than comported with the formation of just and permanent judgment. He was a respectably well read man, not only in his own profession, but he possessed a very creditable store of general information, and was an entertaining and instructive companion. In various ways, he promoted the best interests of medical science; and nothing, probably, prevented him from attaining very considerable eminence, in his calling, but the accession of hereditary wealth; whose management occupied, for many years, a large portion of his time and thoughts.
By some persons, he has been accounted over sharp and hard, in his pecuniary dealings—mean and even miserly. No opinion can be more untrue. Dr. Parkman’s eccentricity was nowhere so manifest, as in his money relations. The line was singularly well defined, in his mind, between charity, or liberality, and traffic. He adhered to the time-honored maxim, thatthere is no love in trade. There are persons, who, in their dealings, give up fractions, and suffer petty encroachments, for the sake of popularity; and who make, not only their own side of a bargain, but, in a very amiable, patronizing way, a portion of the other. Dr. Parkman did none of these things. He gave men credit, for a full share of selfishness and cunning—made his contracts carefully—performed them strictly—and expected an exact fulfilment, from the other party.
It is perfectly natural, that the promptness and the pertinacity of Dr. Parkman, in exacting the punctual payment of money, and the strict performance of contracts, should be equally surprising and annoying to those, whose previous dealings had been with men, of less method and vigilance. But no man, however irritated by the daily repetition of the dun, has ever charged, upon Dr. Parkman, the slightest departure from the line of strict integrity. He was a man of honor, in the true acceptation of that word. His domestic arrangements were of the most liberal kind—his manners were courteous—and he possessed the highspirit of a gentleman—and, with all the occasional evidences, which his conductopenlysupplied, of his particular care, in the gathering of units; he could besecretlyliberal, with hundreds.
It may well be doubted, if any individual has ever lived, for sixty years, in this city, whose real character has been so little understood, by the community at large. The reason is at hand—he exposed that regard for pittances, which most men conceal—and he concealed many acts of charity, which most men expose. He had many tenants of the lower order—he was frequently his own collector, and brought upon himself many murmurs and complaints, which are commonly the agent’s portion.
The charities of Dr. Parkman wore an aspect, now and then, of whimsicality, and were strangely contrasted withapparentmeanness. Thus, upon one occasion, he is said to have insisted upon being paid a paltry balance of rent, some twenty-five cents, by a poor woman, who assured him it was all she had to buy her dinner. “Now we have settled the rent,” said he, and immediately gave her a couple of dollars.
A gentleman, an old college acquaintance of Dr. Parkman’s, told me, a day or two since, that the Dr. came to him, after this gentleman’s failure, some years ago, and said to him, with great kindness and delicacy—“You want a house—there is mine in —— street, empty and repaired—take it—you shall pay no rent for a year, and as much longer, as may suit your convenience.”
In 1832, this city was visited by the cholera. Mr. Charles Wells was Mayor, and a very good Mayor was he. Had his benevolence induced him to labor, for the more extensive diffusion of the blessing of alcohol, among the poor, the liquor trade would certainly have voted him a punch-bowl, for his vigorous opposition to the cholera. Upon the occasion, to which I refer, Dr. Parkman said to the city authorities—“You are seeking for a cholera hospital—take any of my houses, that may suit you, rent free, in welcome. If you prefer that, which I occupy, I will move out, with pleasure.”
When Dorcas died, the good people of Joppa began to display her handiwork. I am surprised, though much of it was known to me before, at the amount of evidence, which is now produced, from various quarters, to prove, that this unfortunate gentleman was a man of the most kind affections, and of extensive, practical benevolence.
Let me close these remarks, with one brief anecdote; which, though once already related of Dr. Parkman, by the editor of the Transcript, is worthy of many republications, and is not at all like news, on the stock exchange, good only while it is new.
“A politician stopped the Doctor in the street and asked him to subscribe for the expense of a salute, in honor of some political victory. The Doctor put his arm in his, and invited him to take a little walk. He led him round the corner into a dismal alley, and then up three flights of rickety stairs into a room where a poor woman was sitting, propped by pillows, feebly attempting to sew. Some pale, hungry-looking children were near. The Doctor took six dollars out of his pocket-book, and handed it to the politician, and, simply remarking, “do with it as you please,” he darted out of the room in his usually impulsive way.”
I must close this feeble tribute of respect to the memory of one, who truly deserved a milder fate and an abler pen. Had we the power of recall—how well and wisely might we pay his ransom, with scores of men, quite aseccentricin their way, but whoseeccentricityhas very rarely assumed the charitable type!
When I was a very young man, I had the honor of a slight acquaintance with a most worthy gentleman, my senior by many years, who represented the town of Hull, in the Legislature of our Commonwealth. As I marked the solemn step, with which he moved along the public way, towards the House of Representatives, and the weight of responsibility, which hung upon his anxious brow—if such, thought I, is the effect, produced upon the representative of Hull—what an awful thing it must be, to represent the whole United States of North America, at the court of the greatest nation in the world!
In harmony with this opinion, every nation of the earth has selected, from theéliteof the whole country, for the high and responsible employment of standing before the world, as the legitimate representative of itself, a man of affairs—I do notmean the affairs of trade, and discounts, and invoices, and profits—I use the word, in its most ample diplomatic sense—a man of great wisdom, and knowledge, and experience—a man familiar with the laws of nations—a man of dignity—not that arrogated dignity, which looks supremely wise, while it feels supremely foolish—but that conscious dignity, which is innate, and sits upon the wearer, like an easy garment—a man of liberal education, and great familiarity, not with the whole circle of sciences, but with the whole circle of historical and correlative knowledge—a man of classical erudition, and a scholar, competent to bear a becoming part, in that elevated intercourse of mind, which forms the dignified and delightful recreation of the diplomatist, in the first society of Europe.
Men, who have been bred up, amid the pursuits of trade, have been, with great propriety, selected, to fill the offices ofconsuls, in foreign lands; agreeably to the long established distinction, thatconsulsrepresent thecommercial affairs—ambassadorsthestate and dignityof the country, from whence they come.
Oh! for the wand of that enchantress, the glorious witch of Endor! to turn up the sod of memory, and conjure, from their honorable graves, the train of illustrious, and highly gifted men, who, from time to time, have been sent forth, to represent this great Republic, before the throne of England!
First, on that scroll of honor, is a name, which shall prove coeval with the first days, and with the last, of this Republic. It shall never perish, till the whole earth itself shall be rolled up, like a scroll. On the second day of June, 1785,John Adamswas presented to King George, the third. The very man, whom that obstinate, old monarch had never contemplated, in his royal visions, but as a rebel, suing for pardon, with a rope about his neck, then stood before him, calm and erect—the equal of that king, in all things, that became a man, and his mighty superior in many—the representative of a nation, which his consummate wisdom, and invincible, moral courage had contributed, so materially, to render free and independent.
What a tribute was conveyed, in the words of Jefferson, his political rival—“The great pillar and support to the declaration of independence, and its ablest advocate and champion on the floor of the house wasJohn Adams.He was the Colossus of that Congress: not graceful, not eloquent, not always fluent, inhis public addresses, he yet came out with a power both of thought and expression, which moved the hearers from their seats.”
In those thoughtful days, secretaries of legation were carefully selected, and with some reference, of course, to their contingent responsibilities, in the event of the absence, or illness, of their principals. When, in 1779, Mr. Adams went, on his mission to France, a gentleman of high qualifications, Mr. Francis Dana, gave up his seat,as a member of Congress, to follow that great man,as secretary of legation. Mr. Dana subsequently figured, ably and gracefully, in the highest stations. In 1780, he was minister to Russia. In 1784, he was a delegate to Congress. In 1797, he declined the office of envoy extraordinary to France. From 1792 to 1806, he was the able, impartial, and eminently dignified Chief Justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts.
In 1794, it was thought, by the appointing power, that John Jay might be trusted to represent our Republic, at the British Court. With what a reputation, for wisdom, and talents, and learning, that great man crossed the sea! Mr. Jay, an eminent lawyer, uniting the wisdom and dignity of years, with the vigor and zeal of early manhood, was a member of the first American Congress, at the age of twenty-nine. Chairman of the Committee, of which Lee and Livingston were members, he was the author of the eloquent “Address to the People of Great Britain.” He was Chief Justice of the State of New York, from 1777 to 1779, and relinquished that elevated station, as incompatible with the due performance of his duties, as President of Congress. From his skilful hand came the stirring address of that assembly, to its constituents, of Sept. 8, 1779. He was appointed minister plenipotentiary to Spain, at the close of that year—a commissioner, to negotiate peace with Great Britain, in 1782—Chief Justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of the United States, in 1789—Governor of New York, in 1795, being then abroad, as minister plenipotentiary of the United States, to Great Britain, to which office he was appointed in 1794—and again Governor of New York, in 1798.
Rufus King graduated at Harvard College, in 1777, with a high reputation, as a classical scholar and an orator; and studied his profession, with the late Chief Justice Parsons. In 1784, he was a delegate to Congress. He was a member of the Convention of 1787, to form the Constitution of the United States. In1789, he was a member of the United States Senate. Of the celebrated Camillus papers, commonly ascribed to Hamilton, all, excepting the ten first, were from the pen of Rufus King. In 1796, he was nominated, by Washington, minister plenipotentiary to the Court of Great Britain. He filled that high station, till the close of the second year of the Jefferson administration. After a long retirement, he was again in the Senate of the United States, in 1813. After quitting the Senate, in 1825, he was once more appointed minister to Great Britain; but, after remaining abroad, about a year, in ill health, he returned, and died at Jamaica, Long Island, April 29, 1827.
“And what shall I more say?For the time would fail me, to tell of” Pinckney, and Gore, and the younger Adams, that incarnation of wisdom and learning, and Gallatin, and Maclean, and Everett, and Bancroft, every one of whom has been preceded, by the well-earned reputation of high, intellectual powers and attainments, whatever may have been the difference of their political opinions.
Knowledge is power; talent is power; and fine literary tastes and acquirements are, preëminently, power; and, in no spot, upon the surface of the earth, are they more truly so, than in the great British metropolis. The wand of a man of letters can there do more, than can be achieved, by the power of Midas, or the wonder-working lamp of Aladdin.
Our fathers, therefore, preferred, that the nation should be represented, in its simplicity and strength, by men of long heads, strong hearts, and short purses. They considered a regular, thorough, and polished education, literary attainments of a very high order, a clear and comprehensive knowledge of the law of nations, and an extensive store of general information, absolutely essential, in a minister plenipotentiary, from this Republic, to the Court of Great Britain; for ourstate and dignitywere to be represented there, not less than ourcommercial relations.
They well knew, that our representative should be qualified to represent the refined and educated portions of our community, in the presence of those elevated classes, among whom he must frequently appear; and “whose talk,” to use the expression of Dr. Johnson, was not likely to be “of bullocks.” They therefore invariably selected, for this exalted station, one, who would be abundantly able to represent the nation, with gravity, and dignity, and wisdom, and knowledge, and power; and whowould never be reduced, whatever the subject might be, to believe his safety was in sitting still, or of suffering the secret of his impotency to escape, by opening his mouth.
If I have passed too rapidly for the reader’s willingness to linger, over the names of some highly distinguished men, who have so ably represented our country, at the British Court, and who stillsurvive—it is becausemy dealings are with the dead.
“An immense quantity of fuel was always of necessity used, when dead bodies were burned, instead of buried; and a friend, learned in such lore, as well as in much that is far more valuable, informs us that the burning of amartyrwas always an expensive process.”
This passage was transferred, from the New York Courier and Enquirer, to the Boston Atlas, December 29, 1849, and is part of an article having reference to the partial cremation of Dr. Parkman’s remains.
I must presume, as a sexton of the old school, to doubt the accuracy of this statement, in the very face of the averment, that the editor’s authority is “a friend, learned in such lore.”
To enable my readers to judge of the comparative expense of burial, in the ordinary mode, by interment or entombment, and by cremation, I refer, in the first place, to Mr. Chadwick’s Report, made by request of Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State, for the Home Department, Lond. 1843, in which it is stated, that a Master in Chancery, when dealing with insolvent estates, will pass, “as a matter of course,” such claims as these—from £60 to £100 for burying an upper tradesman—£250 for burying a gentleman—£500 to £1500 for burying a nobleman.
But let us confine our remarks to the particular allegation. The “friend, learned in such lore,” has greatly diminished the labor of refutation, by confining his statement to the burning ofmartyrs—“the burning of a martyr was always an expensive process,” requiring, says the Courier and Enquirer, “an immense quantity of fuel.”
I well remember to have read, though I cannot recall the authority, that aromatic woods and spices were occasionally used in the East, during thesuttees, to correct the offensive odor. In addition to the reason, assigned by Cicero, De Legibus, ii. 23, for the law against intramural burning, that conflagration might be avoided—Servius, in a note, on the Æneis, vi. 150, states another, that the air might not be infected with the stench. To prevent this, we know that costly perfumes were cast upon the pile; and the respect and affection for the defunct came to be measured, at last, by this species of extravagance; just as the funereal sorrow of the Irish is supposed to be graduated, by the number of coaches, and the quantity of whiskey.
But our business is with themartyrs. What was the cost of burning John Rogers I really do not know. I doubt if the process was very expensive; for good old John Strype has told us, almost to a fagot, how much fuel it took, to burn Cranmer, Latimer, and Ridley. The fuel, employed to burn Latimer and Ridley, cost fifteen shillings and four pence sterling for both; and the fuel for burning Cranmer, nine shillings and four pence only. Then there were chains, stakes, laborers, and cartage; and the whole cost for burning all three, wasone pound, sixteen shillings, and six pence! Not a very expensive process truly. The authority is not at every one’s command: I therefore give it entire, from Strype’s Memorials of Cranmer, Oxford ed., 1840, vol. i. p. 563:—
£1500 toburya nobleman, and £1 16 6, toburnthree martyrs! Leaving the Courier and Enquirer, and the “friend, learned in such lore,” toburyor toburnthis record, as they please, I turn to another subject, referred to, on the very same page of Strype’s Memorials, and which is not without some little interest, at the present moment.
A prisoner, charged with any terrible offence, innocent or guilty, lies under thesurveillanceof all eyes and ears. The slightest act, the shortest word, the very breath of his nostrils are carefully reported. The public resolves itself into a committee of anxious inquirers, to ascertain precisely how he eats, and drinks, and sleeps. There are persons of lively fancies, whose imaginations fire up, at the mere sight of his prison walls, and start off, under high pressure, filling the air with rumors, too horribly delightful, to be doubted for an instant.
If the topic were not the terrible thing that it is, it would be difficult to preserve one’s gravity, while listening to some portion of the testimony, upon which, it may be our fortune, one of these days, to be convicted of murder, by the charitable public.
Of the guilt or innocence of John White Webster Iknownothing, and Ibelievenothing. But it has been currently reported, that, since his confinement, he has been detected, in the crime of eating oysters. I doubt, if this ordeal would have been considered entirely satisfactory, even by Dr. Mather, in 1692. Man is a marvellous monster, when sitting, self-placed, in judgment, on his fellow! The very thing, which is a sin, in the commission or observance, is no less a sin, in the omission and the breach—for who will doubt the blood-guiltiness of a man, that, while confined, on a charge of murder, can partake of an oyster pie! And if he cannot do this, who will doubt, that a consciousness of guilt has deprived him of his appetite!
I have heard of a drunken husband, who, while staggering home, after midnight, communed with himself, as follows—“If my wife has gone to bed, before I get home to supper, I’ll beat her,—and if she is sitting up, so late as this, burning my wood and candles, I’ll beat her.”
Good John Strype, ibid. 562, says of Cranmer, Latimer and Ridley, while in the prison of Bocardo—“They ate constantly suppers as well as dinners. Their meals amounted to about three or four shillings; seldom exceeding four. Their bread and ale commonly came to two pence or three pence; they hadconstantly cheese and pears for their last dish, both at dinner and supper; and always wine.” It is not uninteresting to note the prices, paid for certain articles of their diet, in those days, 1555. While describing theprovantof these martyrs, Strype annexes the prices, “it being an extraordinary dear time.—A goose, 14d. A pig, 12 oz. 13d. A cony, 6d. A woodcock, 3d. and sometimes 5d. A couple of chickens, 6d. Three plovers, 10d. Half a dozen larks, 3d. A dozen of larks and 2 plovers, 10d. A breast of veal, 11d. A shoulder of mutton, 10d. Roast beef, 12d.” He presents one of Cranmer’s bills of fare:—
Two bailiffs, Wells and Winkle, upon their own responsibility, furnished the table of these martyrs, and appear never to have been reimbursed. Strype says, ibid. 563, that they expended £63 10s. 2d., and never received but £20, which they obtained from Sir William Petre, Secretary of State. Ten years after, a petition was presented to the successor of Cranmer, that these poor bailiffs might receive some recompense.
After the pile had burnt down, in the case of Cranmer, upon raking among the embers, his heart was found entire. Upon this incident, Strype exclaims—“Methinks it is a pity, that his heart, that remained sound in the fire, and was found unconsumed in his ashes, was not preserved in some urn; which, when the better times of Queen Elizabeth came, might, in memory of this truly good and great Thomas of Canterbury, have been placed among his predecessors, in his church there, as one of the truest glories of that See.”
In 1821, Mr. William Ward, of Serampore, published, in London, his “Farewell Letters.” Mr. Ward was a Baptist missionary; and, at the time of the publication, was preparing to return to Bengal. This work was very favorably reviewed in the Christian Observer, vol. xxi. p. 504. I have never met with a description, so exceedingly minute, of thesuttee, the process ofburning widows. He thus describes the funeral pile—“The funeral pile consists of a quantity of fagots, laid on the earth, rising, in height, about three feet from the ground, about four feet wide, and six feet in length.” Admitting these fagots to be closely packed, the pile contains seventy-two cubic feet of wood, or fifty-six less than a cord. “A large quantity of fagots are then laid upon the bodies,” says Mr. Ward. As the widow often leaps from the pile, and is chased back again, into the flames, by the benevolent Bramins, the fagots, which are not heapedaroundthe pile, but “laid on the bodies,” cannot be a very oppressive load; and the quantity, thus employed in thesuttee, is for the cremation of two bodies, at least, the dead husband, and the living widow.
There can be no doubt of the superior economy of cremation, over earth-burial. The notions of an “expensive process,” and the “immense quantities of fuel,” have no foundation in practice. If the ashes, as has been sometimes the case, were given to the winds, or cast upon the waters, the expense of cremation would be exceedingly small. But cremation, however inexpensive, in itself, has led to unmeasured extravagance, in the matter of urns of the most costly materials, and workmanship, of which an ample account may be found, in theHydriotaphiaof Sir Thomas Browne, London, 1835, vol. iii. p. 449.
More remarkable changes have occurred, in modern times, than a revival of the practice of cremation. It is an error, however, to suppose this practice to have been the original mode of dealing with the dead. It was very general about the year 1225, B. C., but the usage, at the present day, was, doubtless, the primitive practice of mankind. So thought Cicero, De Legibus ii. 22. “Ac mihi quidem antiquissimum sepulturæ genus id fuisse videtur, quo apud Xenophontem Cyrus utitur. Redditur enim terræ corpus, et ita locatum ac situm, quasi operimento matris obducitur.”
Nevertheless, there is a strong cremation party among us. Who would not save sixpence, if he could, even in a winding-sheet! Should the wood and lumber interest be fairly represented, in our city councils, it would not be surprising, if there should be a majority, in favor of taking the remains of our citizens to Nova Scotia, to be burnt, rather than to Malden, to be buried. My friends, Birch, Touchwood, and Deal, are of this opinion; and would be happy to receive the citizens on boardtheir regular coasters, for this purpose, at a reasonable price, per hundred, or by the single citizen—packed in ice.
An experienced person will be always on hand, to receive the corpses. Religious services will be duly performed, during the burning, without extra charge; and, should the project find favor with the public, a regular line of funeral coasters, with appropriate emblems, and figure-heads, will, in due time, be established. Those, who prefer the more economical mode of water-burial, for their departed relatives, thereby saving the expense of fuel altogether, will be accommodated, if they will leave orders in writing, with the masters on board, who will personally superintend the dropping of the bodies, off soundings.
While attempting to rectify the supposed mistakes of other men, we sometimes commit egregious blunders ourselves. In turning over an old copy of John Josselyn’s Voyages to New England, in 1638 and 1663, my attention was attracted, by a particular passage, and a marginal manuscript note, intended to correct what the annotator supposed, and what some readers might suppose, to be a blunder of the printer, or the author. The passage runs thus—“In 1602, these North parts were further discovered by Capt.Bartholomew Gosnold. The firstEnglishthat planted there, set down not far from theNarragansetts Bay, and called their ColonyPlimouth, since oldPlimouth, An. Dom., 1602.” The annotator had written, on the margin, “gross blunder,” and, in both instances, run his indignant pen through 1602, and substituted 1620. There are others, doubtless, who would have done the same thing. The first aspect of the thing is certainly very tempting. The text, nevertheless, is undoubtedly correct. It is altogether likely, that the matter, stated by Josselyn, can be found, so stated by no other writer. In 1602, Gosnold discovered the Elizabeth Islands, and built a house, and erected palisades, on the “Island Elizabeth,” the westernmost of the group, whose Indian name was Cuttyhunk. In 1797, Dr. Jeremy Belknap visited this interesting spot. “We had the supreme satisfaction,” says he, Am. Biog. ii. 115, “to find the cellar of Gosnold’s store-house!”
Hutchinson, i. 1, refers expressly to the passage, in Josselyn; and after stating that Gosnold discovered the Elizabeth Islands, in 1602, and built a fort there, and intended a settlement, but could not persuade his people to remain, he adds, in a note—“This, I suppose, is what Josselyn, and no other author, calls the first colony of New Plimouth, for he says it was begun in 1602, and near Narragansett Bay.”
The writer of a “Topographical Description of New Bedford,” M. H. C., iv. 234, states, that the island, on which Gosnold built his fort and store-house, wasNashaun, and refers to Dr. Belknap’s Biography. The New Bedford writer is wrong, in point of fact, and right, in point of reference. Dr. Belknap published the first volume of his Biography, in 1794, containing a short notice of Gosnold, in which, p. 236, he says—“The island, on which Gosnold and his companions took up their abode, is now called by its Indian name,Nashaun, and is the property of the Hon. James Bowdoin, of Boston, to whom I am indebted for these remarks on Gosnold’s journal.” The writer of the description of New Bedford published his account, the following year, and relied on Dr. Belknap, who unfortunately relied on his informant, who, it seems, was entirely mistaken.
Dr. Belknap published his second volume, in 1798, with a new and more extended memoir of Gosnold, in which, p. 100, he remarks—“The account of Gosnold’s voyage and discovery, in the first volume of this work, is so erroneous, from the misinformation, which I had received, that I thought it best to write the whole of it anew. The former mistakes are here corrected, partly from the best information which I could obtain, after the most assiduous inquiry; but principally frommy own observations, on the spot; compared with the journal of the voyage, more critically examined than before.”
Here is abundant evidence of that scrupulous regard for historical truth, for which that upright and excellent man was ever remarkable. With most writers, the pride of authorship would have revolted. The very thought of thesevestigia retrorsum, would not have found toleration, for a moment. Some less offensive mode might have been adopted, by the employment oferrata, orappendices, oraddenda. Not so: this conscientious man, however innocently, had misled the public, upon a few historical points, and nothing would give him satisfaction, but a public recantation. His right hand had not been the agent, likeCranmer’s, of voluntary falsehood, but of unintentional mistake, like Scævola’s; and nothing would suffice, in his opinion, but the actual cautery.
In this second life of Gosnold, p. 114, after describing “the island Elizabeth,” or Cuttyhunk, Dr. Belknap says—“To this spot I went, on the 20th day of June, 1797, in company with several gentlemen, whose curiosity and obliging kindness induced them to accompany me. The protecting hand of nature had reserved this favorite spot to herself. Its fertility and its productions are exactly the same, as in Gosnold’s time, excepting the wood, of which there is none. Every species of what he calls ‘rubbish,’ with strawberries, pears, tansy, and other fruits, and herbs, appear in rich abundance, unmolested by any animal but aquatic birds. We had the supreme satisfaction to find the cellar of Gosnold’s store-house.”
“We had the supreme satisfaction to find the cellar of Gosnold’s store-house!”—A whole-souled ejaculation this! I reverence the memory of the man who made it. It is not every other man we meet on ’Change, who can estimate a sentiment like this. My little Jew friend, in Griper’s Alley, entirely mistakes the case. Never having heard of Bart Gosnold before, he takes him, for the like of Kidd; and the venerable Dr. Jeremy Belknap, for a gold-finder. Whatsupreme satisfactioncould there be, in discovering the cellar of a store-house, nearly two hundred years old, unless hidden treasures were there concealed! How, in the name of two per cent. a month, and all the other gods we worship, could a visit down to Cuttyhunk everpay, only to stare at the stones of an ancient cellar!
Dr. Belknap’s ejaculation reminds one of divers interesting matters—of Archimedes, when he leaped from his bath, and ran about naked, for joy, witheurekaon his lips, having excogitated the plan, for detecting the fraud, practised upon Hiero.—It also recalls—parvis componere magna—Johnson’s memorable exclamation, upon walking over the graves, at Icolmkill—“To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible, if it were endeavored, and would be foolish, if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my friends be such frigid philosophy, as may conduct as indifferent and unmoved over any ground,which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona.”
Dr. Jeremy Belknap was a Boston boy, born June 4, 1744. He learned his rudiments, under the effective birch of Master Lovell; graduated A. M. at Harvard, 1762, S. T. D. 1792. He was ordained pastor of the church in Dover, N. H. 1767; and in 1787, he became pastor of the church in Berry Street, formerly known as Johnny Moorehead’s, who was settled there in 1730, and succeeded, by David Annan, in 1783, and which is now Dr. Gannett’s.
Dr. Belknap was the founder of the Massachusetts Historical Society, and one of the most earnest promoters of the welfare of Harvard College.
Dr. Belknap published sermons, on various occasions; a volume of dissertations, on the character and resurrection of Christ; his history of New Hampshire in three volumes; his American Biography, in two volumes; and the Foresters, an American Tale, well worthy of republication, at the present day. He wrote extensively, in the newspapers, and published several essays, on the slave trade, and upon the early settlement of the country.
I have the most perfect recollection of this excellent man; for I saw him often, when I was very young; and I used to wonder, how a man, with so rough a voice, could bestow such a benign and captivating smile, upon little boys.
The churchman prays to be delivered fromsuddendeath. Dr. Belknap prayed forsuddendeath—that he might be translated “in a moment”—such were his words. Yet here is no discrepancy. No man, prepared to die, will pray for a lingering death—and to him, who is not prepared, no death, however prolonged, can be other thansuddenand premature. On the ninth of February, 1791, Dr. Belknap was called to mourn the loss of a friend, whose death was immediate. Among the Dr.’s papers, after his decease, the following lines were found, bearing the date of that friend’s demise, and exhibiting, with considerable felicity of language, his own views and aspirations:—
“When faith and patience, hope and loveHave made us meet for Heav’n above;How blest the privilege to rise,Snatch’d, in a moment, to the skies!Unconscious, to resign our breath,Nor taste the bitterness of death!Such be my lot, Lord, if thou pleaseTo die in silence, and at ease;When thou dost know, that I’m prepared,Oh seize me quick to my reward.But, if thy wisdom sees it best,To turn thine ear from this request;If sickness be th’ appointed way,To waste this frame of human clay;If, worn with grief, and rack’d with pain,This earth must turn to earth again;Then let thine angels round me stand;Support me, by thy powerful hand;Let not my faith or patience move,Nor aught abate my hope or love;But brighter may my graces shine,Till they’re absorbed in light divine.”
The will of the Lord coincided with the wish of this eminent disciple; and his was the sudden death, that he had asked of God. At 4 o’clock in the morning of June 20, 1798, paralysis seized upon his frame, and, before noon, he was no more.
Personal considerations of the flesh cannot be supposed, alone, to have moved the heart of this benevolent man. Who would not wish to avoid that pain, which is reflected, for days, and weeks, and months, and years, from the faces of those we love, who watch, and weep, about the bed of disease and death! Who can imagine this veteran soldier of the cross, with his armor of righteousness, upon the right hand and upon the left, awaiting the welcome signal to depart—without adopting, in the spiritual, and in the physical, sense, the language of the prophet—“Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.”
I never dream, if I can possibly avoid it—when the thing is absolutely forced upon me, why that is another affair. On the evening of the second day of January, 1850, from some inexplicable cause, I lost all appetite for my pillow. I had, till past eleven, been engaged, in the perusal of Goethe’s Confessions of a Fair Saint. After a vain trial of the commonplace expedients,such as counting leaping sheep, up to a thousand and one; humming Old Hundred; and fixing my thoughts upon the heads of good parson Cleverly’s last Sabbath sermon, on perseverance; I, fortunately, thought of Joel Barlow’s Columbiad, and, after two or three pages, went, thankfully, to bed. I threw myself upon my right side, as I always do; for, being deaf—very—in the sinister ear, I thus exclude the nocturnal cries of fire, oysters, and murder.
I think I must have been asleep, full half an hour, by a capital Shrewsbury clock, that I keep in my chamber. It was, of course, on the dawning side of twelve—the very time, when dreams are true, or poets lie, which latter alternative is impossible. I was aroused, by the stroke of a deep-toned bell; and, in an instant, sat bolt upright, listening to the sound. I should have known it, among a thousand—it was the old passing bell of King’s Chapel. I am confident, as to the bell—it had the full, jarring sound, occasioned by the blockhead of a sexton, who cracked it, in 1814. I counted the strokes—one—two—three—an adult male, of course—and then the age—seventy-four was the number of the strokes of that good old bell, corresponding with the years of his pilgrimage—and then a pause—I almost expected another—so, doubtless, did he, poor man—but it came not!—Some old stager, thought I, has put up, for the long night; and the power of slumber was upon me, in a moment.
I slept—but it was a fitful sleep—and I dreamt such a dream, as none but a sexton of the old school can ever dream—
————“velut ægri somnia, vanæFingentur species, ut nec pes, nec caput uniReddatur formæ.”
“Funeral baked meats,” and bride’s cake, and weepers, and wedding rings seemed oddly consorted together. At one moment, two very light and airy skeletons seemed to be engaged, in dancing the polka; and, getting angry, flung their skulls furiously at each other. I then fancied, that I saw old Grossman, driving his hearse at a full run, with the corpse of an intemperate old lady, not to the graveyard, but, by mistake, to the very shop, where she bought her Jamaica. I dare not relate the half of my dream, lest I should excite some doubt of my veracity. For aught I know, I might have dreamt on till midsummer, had not a hand been laid on my shoulder, and a change come over the spirit of my dream, in a marvellous manner—for I actuallydreamt I was wider awake, than I often am, when Sirius rages, of a summer afternoon, and I am taking my comfort, in my postprandial chair.
Starting suddenly, I beheld the well known features of an old acquaintance and fellow-spadesman—“Don’t you know me?” “Yes,” said I—“no, I can’t say I do”—for I was confoundedly frightened—“Not know me! Haven’t we lifted, head and foot, together, for six and thirty years?” “Well, I suppose we have; but you are so deadly pale; and, will you be so kind as to take your hand from my shoulder; for it’s rather airy, at this season, you know, and your palm is like the hand of death.” “And such it is,” said he—“did you not hear my bell?” “Yourbell?” I inquired, gazing more intently, at the little, white-haired, old man, that stood before me. “Even so, Abner,” he replied; “your old friend, and fellow-laborer, Martin Smith, is dead. I always had a solemn affection, for the passing bell. It sounded not so pleasantly, to be sure, in the neighborhood of theatres and gay hotels; and its good, old, solemnizing tones are no longer permitted to be heard. I longed to hear it, once more; and, after they had laid me out, and left me alone, I clapped on my great coat, over my shroud, as you see, and ran up to the church, and tolled my own death peal. When, more than one hundred years ago, in 1747, Dr. Caner took possession, in the old way, by entering, and closing the doors, and tolling the bell, as the Rev. Roger Price had done before, in 1729, he did not feel, that the church belonged to him, half so truly as I have felt, for many years, whenever I got a fair grip of that ancient bell-rope.”
“Martin,” said I, “this is rather a long speech, for a ghost; and must be wearying to the spirit; suppose you sit down.” This I said, because I really supposed the good, little, old man, contrary to all his known habits, was practising upon my credulity—perhaps upon my fears; and was playing a new year’s prank, in his old age: and I resolved, by the smallest touch of sarcasm in the world, to show him, that I was not so easily deceived. He made no reply; but, drawing my hand between his great coat and shroud, placed it over the region of his heart—“Good God! you are really dead then, Martin!” said I, for all was cold and still there. “I am,” he replied. “I have lived long—did you count the strokes of my bell?”—I nodded assent, for I could not speak.—“Four years beyond the scriptural measure of man’spilgrimage. You are not so old as I am”—“No,” I replied.—“No, not quite,” said he.—“No, no, Martin,” said I, adjusting my night cap, “not by several years.”—“Well,” said the old man, with a sigh, “a few years make very little difference, when one has so many to answer for; those odd years are like a few odd shillings, in a very long account. I have come to ask you to go with me.”—A cold sweat broke through my skin, as quickly, as if it had been mere tissue paper; and my mind instantly sprang to the work of finding devices, for putting the old man off. “Surely,” said he, observing my reluctance, “you would not deny the request of a dying man.” “Perhaps not,” I replied, “but now that you are dead, dear Martin, for Heaven’s sake, what’s the use of it?”
The old man seemed to be pained, by my hesitation—“Abner,” said he, after a short pause, “you and I have had a goodly number of strange passages, at odd hours, down in that vault—are ye afeard, Abner—eh!”—“Why, as to that, Martin,” said I, “if you were a real, live sexton, I’d go with pleasure; but our relations are somewhat changed, you will admit. Besides, as I told you before, I cannot see the use of it.” I felt rather vexed, to be suspected of fear.
“You have the advantage of me, Abner Wycherly,” said Martin Smith, “being alive; and I have come to ask you to do a favor, for me, which I cannot do, for myself.”—“What is it?” said I, rather impatiently, perhaps.—“I want you to embalm my”—“Martin,” said I, interrupting him—“I can’t—I never embalmed in my life.” “You misunderstand me”—the old man replied—“I want you to embalm my memory; and preserve it, from the too common lot of our profession, who are remembered, often, as resurrectionists, and men of intemperate lives, and mysterious conversations. I want you to allow me a littleniche, among yourDealings with the Dead. I shall take but little room, you see for yourself”—and then, in an under-tone, he said something about thinking more of the honor, than he should of a place in Westminster Abbey; which was very agreeable, to be sure, notwithstanding the sepulchral tone, in which it was uttered. Indeed I was surprised to find how very refreshing, to the spirits of an author, this species of extreme unction might be, administered even by a ghost.
“Martin,” said I, “I have always thought highly of your good opinion; but what can I say—how can I serve you?”“I am desirous,” said he, “of transmitting to my children a good name, which is better than riches.”—“Well, my worthy, old fellow-laborer,” I replied, “if that is all you want, the work is done to your hand, already. You will not suspect me of flattering you to your face, now that you are dead, Martin; and I can truly say, that I have heard thousands speak of you, with great kindness and respect, and never a lisp against you. All this I am ready to vouch for—but, for what purpose, do you ask me to go with you?”
“I wish you to go with me, and examine for yourself,” said the old man; “and then you can speak, of your own knowledge. Don’t refuse me—let us have one more of those cozy walks, Abner, under the old Chapel, and over that yard. I desire to talk over some things with you there, which can be better understood, upon the spot—and I want to explain one or two matters, so that you may be able to defend my reputation, should any censure be cast upon it, after I am gone.”—“I cannot go with you tonight, Martin,” said I; “I see a gleam in the East, already.”—“True,” said he, “I may be missed.”—For not more than the half of one second, I closed my eyes—and, in that twinkling of an eye, he was gone—but I heard him whisper, distinctly, as he went—“tomorrow night!”